


bête noire

by Unuora



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Heaven (and Hell) are terrible, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, ambigious time period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22009762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unuora/pseuds/Unuora
Summary: There are rules to the arrangement. They drink, and they talk, and they sometimes cross party lines.It's just that Crowley's cracking under the strain Hell's putting him under, and he's got nowhere else to turn. Even if it's to the very place causing half the problems to begin with.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 105





	bête noire

**Author's Note:**

> this is really just a sad fic about aziraphale and crowley being scared of their bosses. ive gone back and forth on whether this is good enough to post, but WHATEVER i'm unstoppable, immutable, a maniac, etc 
> 
> secondly, i really don't know when this was set, don't look at me. sometime before armageddon, sometime after crowley asks for holy water

It was a surprise when there was knocking at the A. Z. Fell and co. bookshop just after midnight, and it was even more of a surprise when it turned out to be Crowley. He rarely showed up unannounced and never this late, but there he was, a shivering, damp silhouette in the doorway.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, upon opening the door. He doesn’t hesitate to step back and let Crowley in, even if he doesn’t follow. “Ah, you’re soaked, darling.” He snaps and Crowley’s dry again, but it doesn’t stop the shivering.

“Ah,” Crowley says, his fingers digging into his arms so hard his knuckles have gone white. The shadows cast on his glasses make his expression unreadable, still hesitating in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale asks, opening the door further, an eager invitation. When Crowley doesn’t move a thought comes to him. “Did they— are they coming—"

“No!” Crowley says, abruptly and it snaps him out of it, stumbling inside. “It’s not— it’s not Hell. Or Heaven. It’s—“ He never says what it is, stopping a few feet inside of the bookshop, staring at Aziraphale. Aziraphale just squints back, concerned. A long moment passes where Aziraphale expects him to continue only to be met with silence.

“If you’re not going to tell me you might as well sit down. You look like you’re going to topple over.” Aziraphale moves closer to guide Crowley further inside and Crowley flinches back, stumbling against the coat rack making it crash to the ground.

“Sorry,” Crowley says, righting it. “Clumsy of me.” He swallows, visibly shaken.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says slowly, “You’re scaring me.”

“It’s, it’s nothing. I’m—“ Crowley looks about, swiveling back towards the door. “I should go.”

“No, I—“ Aziraphale says, grabbing Crowley’s arm before he can make a move towards the door. He flinches hard, wrenching out of Aziraphale’s grip, and Aziraphale instantly backs off. The expression Crowley turns on Aziraphale is wretched.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, his voice cracking.

“Stay for tea,” Aziraphale pleads, hands raised placatingly. He tries hard to pretend he’s not as shaken as he is. His hand is tingling, burning, like he’s been seared to the bone. “Whatever this is it’ll be improved by tea.” Crowley laughs, bringing his hand up to rub a hand across his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley says. His shoulders drop in mere inches. “Alright.” Crowley doesn’t offer any answers in the time it takes Aziraphale to putter about the kitchen making tea, but he watches him closely, eagerly even, as he sits blank faced at the table. Normally Crowley always has something to say, but not today. Anxiety rises in Aziraphale, one slow notch at a time.

Aziraphale puts the tea in front of Crowley, giving him a weak smile. He sits across from Crowley, feeling the heat from his cup seep into his hands. There’s a long-extended silence where Aziraphale fights the urge to fidget. It’s not often that he feels nervous around Crowley, but this has been anything but ordinary. The silence that fills the room is choking, noxious, settling on them with deadly force.

“Can you at least tell me if you’re in danger?” Aziraphale asks lowly, wondering distantly what they’ll do if the answer is yes. Crowley had asked him for holy water all that time ago and oh, how helpful would that truly be if he’s estranged from all of Hell. And to think of Heaven, if they knew he was helping a demon refugee.

“No,” Crowley says, soft. He takes a deep breath, shudderingly. “I’m fine.”

The creeping fear doesn’t dissipate. If Aziraphale was a good angel, he’d shoo Crowley right out the door. This is beyond their arrangement, beyond their tea drinking and wine going. But Aziraphale can’t just chase Crowley out now, even if he can feel Heaven’s eyes on him in this very moment. “Are you sure you can’t tell me what this is about?” Aziraphale asks. He already feels tense, awaiting a knock at the bookshop door, waiting.

“It shouldn’t be discussed,” Crowley says shortly, sipping at his tea.

“Maybe it should if it upsets you so much,” Aziraphale says gently. Crowley just laughs, and it sounds painful.

“Shouldn’t,” Crowley says. “Not unless you’ve got lots of wine.”

“That is what you would say, wouldn’t you.” Aziraphale says, conceding and miracling a bottle of wine onto the table. Crowley immediately goes for it, only to be stopped by Aziraphale’s quick hand.

“But you’re to tell me what it is that has you so shaken up,” Aziraphale says, scolding.

Crowley’s hand hovers in the air near the wine before retracting quickly. “No, nah,” Crowley says, leaning back on his chair, forced nonchalance. “We just went over this, didn’t we? Nothing that matters. Let’s drink.”

“You scared me, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, because it’s the truth. “You’re still scaring me, actually.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Crowley says and then drains his surely still hot tea. “Pour me some of that, now.” Aziraphale gapes at him, holding the wine close.

“Perhaps I was a bit hasty on the wine,” Aziraphale says slowly.

“Aw, c’mon,” Crowley wiggling his fingers enticingly. “It’s a wonderful year and it’s been ages since we drank together.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale says, staring at the label on the bottle wistfully. Crowley’s got a charming smile on his face now, looking like he didn’t just appear at the bookshop door totally ravaged. There’s something dark and dreading sinking in the pit of his stomach, and it makes him snap the wine out of existence despite Crowley’s cry of protest. “I fear it’s been even longer since we chatted.”

“Chatted,” Crowley mocks, rolling his eyes. He puts his empty cup down with a bang. “What do you want to chat about?”

“What have you been up to, my dear?” Aziraphale sips from his tea, watching Crowley’s mouth curl at the question. “I haven’t seen you around in ages.”

“What do you think,” Crowley says, with a flippant gesture. “Demon stuff.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Have they been taking you out of London much?”

“Satan, Aziraphale,” Crowley swears. “What do you want to know? All the gory details?”

“If need be,” Aziraphale says stiffly.

“Wha— what the— what does that even mean,” Crowley sputters. “You don’t want to hear about the tempting and killing and all the cute facets of demonhood. It’s not good for anyone.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Aziraphale says, frowning at Crowley now. “Besides, you may find talking about it helpful.”

“Helpful how?” A laugh cracks out of Crowley’s chest, high and sharp. “I don’t need to be reminded of the reprehensible things to know I’m still a demon and—“Crowley cuts off abruptly, face contorting. “I knew I should leave.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, nearly knocking his tea to the ground in his haste to stop Crowley from rising. “I’ll stop. I will. I don’t want you to leave like this.” He leaves out the part about wanting to keep Crowley safe, but judging by the set frown of his mouth Crowley understands. There’s something tenuous and dangerous happening here, and the expression Crowley turns on him is wretched, even behind the glasses Aziraphale can see emotions warring.

“Why,” Crowley says, looking surprisingly vulnerable.

“Because I’ve missed you,” Aziraphale admits and he doesn’t like the way the words crawl across Crowley’s face like in a slow-motion reaction.

“I’m here,” Crowley just says, and sits back down at the table. Aziraphale’s half empty tea becomes a lot less interesting, now and Aziraphale looks imploringly at Crowley.

“I don’t really think you are,” Aziraphale says. He studies Crowley’s down turned face, the clutch of his fingers against his folded arms. He’s still trembling, ever so slightly. “Are you cold?”

“Wh-wuh?” This question clearly throws Crowley, because the set stubbornness fades from his face as he squints at Aziraphale warily.

“You’re shivering,” Aziraphale says. He stands, hoping he looks half as decisive as he wants to. “Let me get you a blanket. I’ll be right back.” He barely makes it two steps before Crowley is grabbing at him, keeping him from climbing the stairs. As soon as Aziraphale stops and Crowley realizes what he’s done he lets go as if he’s been burned.

“Sorry,” Crowley says, making a half-aborted motion backwards. “My bad. It's-- it's nothing, forget it.”

There’s a meaningful moment of silence. “That wasn’t about the blanket, I’m assuming,” Aziraphale says, and he gets a dry laugh in response.

“It’s nothing.” At Aziraphale’s glare Crowley shrugs, looking away. “I don’t need a stupid blanket. I’m fine.”

Aziraphale watches him fidget for a moment. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me, my dear?” Aziraphale says, diplomatically. Aziraphale stands at the edge of the stairs, waiting, as they try to wait each other out. It’s only a moment or so before Crowley abandoning his empty cup to go climb the stairs with Aziraphale.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale says once they enter the bedroom, grabbing a blanket from the closet and wrapping Crowley with it. Crowley mutely goes where Aziraphale guides him, settling on the edge of the bed where Aziraphale puts him.

“You don’t need to fuss, I don’t understand why you’re—” Crowley starts but stops when Aziraphale glares down at him, mouth a thin line.

“I would appreciate it if you would stop lying to me,” Aziraphale says, closing the closet with a click. “Since you’re so reluctant to tell me what the matter is, you’re going to stay here until I consider you better.”

Crowley mumbles something, too quiet to hear, tugging the blanket tighter around himself. “I’m just supposed to sit here until you’re done mother henning me?” It’s said like he’s supposed to be derisive, but Crowley can’t muster up the venom.

“No, you’re going to sit and be warm, safe and close to me,” Aziraphale says. “I’m assuming that isn’t objectionable.”

Crowley laughs, barely a huff of a breath. He rubs the heel of his hand across his mouth. “Yeah, no, that’s fine.” He can’t quite look at Aziraphale, and flops down on the bed to avoid Aziraphale’s gaze.

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale says, studying the curve of Crowley’s back.

It takes Crowley a moment to chew over a response. “You’ll stay here? Even if I sleep?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, feeling that pit of worry rise in him again. He miracles a chair into existence, setting it next to the bed. “As long as you need.”

Crowley nods, tugging the blanket even tighter over his shoulders. Despite how little Aziraphale uses the bed he knows it’s soft and comfortable. Crowley certainly makes no complaint, forming a gentle comma curled away from Aziraphale. Aziraphale watches the rise and fall of his breathing for a few minutes.

It’s not often that Aziraphale stays upstairs, but it’s nice to sit in bed and read occasionally. He picks up one of the few books he’d left on the nightstand previously, cracking one open and beginning to read.

He doesn’t make it far, though. The book is some drab mystery novel with no real draw to it, which may be the reason why it was left up here, but Aziraphale finds himself distracted by watching Crowley.

Crowley hasn’t managed to stay relaxed for long, and as the minutes tick on the anxiety continues to worsen. There’s tension high in his back, his shoulders drawn up close. After a handful of minutes Aziraphale sees he begins to tremble.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks slowly, and when he doesn’t immediately get a response he begins to sit up, closing the book in his lap. “Are you alright, dear?”

The shape on the bed just curls in closer, into a tighter ball. Then, driving ice into Aziraphale’s heart, he hears a sniffle.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, feeling wounded himself. This whole night Aziraphale has been failing Crowley so badly, finding himself so unable to help him. He tries to reach out to touch Crowley on the shoulder and he flinches back again. “Crowley,” Aziraphale says helplessly.

“Don’t,” Crowley says, a bit mangled by tears. It makes Aziraphale’s heart rise in his throat, making it nearly too tight to breathe. Don’t touch, don’t leave, don’t ask what’s wrong. Aziraphale doesn’t have a clue what to do, his mind whirring thoughtlessly for a moment while he’s half knelt on the bed.

“Isn’t there anything I can do to help?” Aziraphale asks, leaning away to sit on the bed a few feet away. It’s horrible, just sitting there watching Crowley cry, but having him flinch away from him is worse. “You can’t expect me to just sit here and watch you suffer.”

“Suffer,” Crowley says, and laughs, all wrong. Then, groaning, “Oh, fuck.”

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale tries, “We’re safe, we’re okay…”

“We’re not, though,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale’s blood runs cold. “Safe.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicker to the door in a quick, nervous gesture. It takes him a moment to gather himself enough to reply. “What do you mean?”

“They’re going to find out, soon,” Crowley says, biting down on a sob. “Hell is keeping tabs on me, they’re watching and—”

“What?” Aziraphale jumps up from where he’s been sitting, as if he could launch himself into action. But what could he possibly do to stop Hell from barging in here? He’s kept the secret of their _arrangement_ from Heaven for so long, but if Hell knows— “Hell knows you’re here? Heavens, Crowley, why didn’t you say—we need to—oh, Lord—”

“Calm down, of course Hell knows,” Crowley sits up, sneering, and it’s the closest to fury Aziraphale’s ever seen directed at him. “Fuck, angel, do you really think—” he laughs, then bright and furious even with the tears still on his face. “It—it’s my _job_ to corrupt you.”

That stops Aziraphale right in his tracks, fumbling the book he’s fretfully picked up right onto the floor. “What?” Then, slowly, “Hell’s known this whole time?”

“Oh, honestly, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. He rolls his eyes, but he can’t seem to look at Aziraphale anymore. “Don’t act so surprised. One demon, one angel, what do you think I was sent here to do?”

Frantically, Aziraphale’s brain cycles back to where this conversation started. He swallows hard, his throat clicking. “Does Hell know that we’re—about the arrangement?”

“No,” Crowley says, wiping his face with a hand. He’s still crying, the occasional tear hastily brushed away in quick, angry motions. “Some are just beginning to think I’m a spectacular failure.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He manages to get himself to sit on the edge of the bed again, still half expecting someone to burst through the door. “Crowley, you told me you weren’t in any danger—”

“I’m not!” Crowley bites out. “But it’s my _job_ to corrupt you, and everyone downstairs is beginning to figure out I’m not very good at it. So after playing some games with me they’re trying to figure out what’s wrong with me and, then—then what’s next? Are they—they—” He stops, abruptly, looking terrified. It’s something that Aziraphale can empathize with.

“You’re doing your best,” Aziraphale says softly, “Standing by what you think is right is the bravest thing you can do.”

“They make me hurt people,” Crowley admits after a moment. “There’s nothing brave about such horrible things.”

Oh, the War, the floods, how many crusades fought under Her name? There’s always been something bigger, greater, that Aziraphale was too dim to understand. Aziraphale knows the feeling of discordance between action and will eerily well. “Yes,” Aziraphale says, “I know. But you mustn’t let them beat the kindness out of you.” Crowley’s face contorts, but Aziraphale shushes him, a sad smile passing his face. “Just let me, for today.”

It doesn’t soothe the expression on Crowley’s face. “Don’t be so nice to me,” Crowley says, looking away. “I’m your enemy.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale says. “You’re a demon, and my adversary, and tonight, you’re also my friend.” He swallows, hard, trying to ignore his own fear prickling at his skin.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, helplessly. “What if they—they could try to get me to kill you. What—what then? You’re my-- you’re my fondest friend.”

“It won’t come to that,” Aziraphale says, even though he’s been hearing talk of the apocalypse for centuries, millennia. As if he hasn’t thought of which of them would win in a fight, and how little he wanted to find out. “You’re smart and brave enough to outwit all of Hell, my dear. They’ve believed you this long.”

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale, then, face flushed with tears, amber eyes blown out. “I don’t want to put you in danger, angel.” He’s such a lovely thing, Aziraphale thinks, so good for him. He reaches out to touch him again, to wrap him in a hug, and is only stopped by the memory of him flinching away.

“Can I touch you?” Aziraphale asks, nudging closer on the bed. After a moment’s hesitation Crowley nods, and Aziraphale folds him into a hug. “You’re going to keep us safe, I know it.”

“Angel—” Uncertainly, Crowley’s arms reach up to hug back. His trembling hands settle lightly on Aziraphale’s back.

“I have unquestionable faith in you, my dear,” Aziraphale says, hugging tighter. “You’re the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley croaks, his hands going tighter in the fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt.

“You’re safe,” Aziraphale says, stroking his back as Crowley begins to cry again, clutched tight in Aziraphale’s arms. “We’re going to be okay.”

Aziraphale doesn’t quite believe it yet, but maybe one day it’ll be true. For now, he just has to believe it the best he can, stubbornly, helplessly, even with all of Heaven and Hell watching them.

When Crowley falls asleep in Aziraphale’s arms he stays there for a long time, just holding him close. Aziraphale can keep Heaven appeased, and if Crowley can do the same with Hell, then it will be just fine. He feels the assuring beat of Crowley’s heart underneath his palms, and he knows that this is all he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed.
> 
> i don't think this is anywhere approaching canon in any sense of the word, but i'll just pretend


End file.
